


Twelve Christmases

by takethesky87



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Bittersweet, Christmas, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Growing Old Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love, M/M, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Parenthood, Retirement, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethesky87/pseuds/takethesky87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sighing, Sherlock looks at their hands. “When did we grow old, John?”</p><p>-</p><p>Their first, their last, and a lifetime in between. Twelve 221b drabbles for twelve Christmases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year 1

Sherlock looks at him as though he has sprouted another ear.

“What’s this?”

“A gift. For Christmas.” John rubs the back of his neck. “I thought that was, er, fairly obvious.”

Sherlock turns the present over in his palms. In one swift movement, he tears off the paper, tosses it to the floor, and stares at the box in his hands. Eventually his eyes rise to John, this time looking at him as though John has escaped from a mental institution. “Cluedo,” he says, disbelieving.

John smirks. “I thought it might be fun. Have you ever played?”

“No.”

“Then it will definitely be fun.” He bends to pick up the discarded paper and carries it to the kitchen. “By the way, people should start arriving around six. I left a note on the door. Where did you put the biscuits?”

“Above the sink,” Sherlock says. “Behind the blood samples.”

“Lovely,” John mutters, though a strange note in Sherlock’s voice gives him pause. He glances back: Sherlock is facing the window now, violin in hand, his head turned to gaze at the board game where it rests atop the desk. Sherlock’s brow furrows in the glow of fairy lights.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s okay.” John leans against the counter and smiles. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Mm,” says Sherlock, lifting his bow.


	2. Year 2

Donovan, Dimmock—the place teems with memories, though John is uninterested in reminiscing. Thankfully, the Yarders are of similar mind, glancing his way but otherwise avoiding him. 

Except Greg. Usually John would be grateful, but today he sighs as Greg approaches, his face kind but knowing.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

Greg offers a pint, then studies John over the rim—not the penetrating gaze John once knew, though something like it. “Me neither,” John admits.

Greg nods, understanding but without a trace of pity. John admires him for that. “Stay for the Christmas crackers, at least?”

“Can’t. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Right.” Greg looks at him, hard. “Hang in there, John.”

Outside, the wind howls, the stars shining brightly. Glancing upward, John strides across pavement, running from something he is unwilling to name.

 

Sherlock sits against a balcony railing. This is the ninth text he’s drafted, each more idiotic than the last. The morphine’s fault, surely—nothing else can explain the ugly emotions spilling from his fingers.

_Merry Christmas_ , he taps, but that won’t do, and in a fit of anger he deletes both the text and John’s number. He tilts his head back, cursing the morphine, the knife wound, the feelings intruding on his mind, flinging insults at the stars as they disappear behind the mask of daylight, pale and blue.


	3. Year 6

Joanna’s wailing wakes him.

Blood trickles from Sherlock’s temple. He lurches upright, then up the stairs to the choir loft. Through the door he sees John, Joanna in one arm and his pistol in the other. Three pews to his left is Mary. Carmichael stands just beyond the door, his back to Sherlock and a gun leveled at Joanna.

Sherlock’s thoughts move sluggishly. Door hinges: oiled, unlikely to squeak. Little clearance between door and carpet: he’ll have to shove hard. Mickey Carmichael: forty-five, six foot three, fourteen stone, Beretta 92. Joanna Watson: ten months, thirty inches, one stone nine, her father’s hair, her mother’s eyes—

_Stop_ , Sherlock thinks, and heaves open the door.

A blow to the neck, a kick to the knee. Sherlock kneels on the unconscious man’s shoulders and aims the gun, nausea blurring his vision.

“Joanna?” Mary stammers.

“Fine, she’s fine. Aren’t you, baby girl?” Joanna sobs into John’s shoulder, or maybe Mary’s. Sherlock doesn’t know—his eyes are glued to Carmichael’s.

“Sherlock,” John says.

Sherlock looks. John is crouched at Sherlock’s side; nearby, Mary talks into a phone, Joanna nuzzled against her. Relief pours from Mary, her eyes bright.

He turns to John, expecting similar. Instead, John throws out his arms. Sherlock stiffens, then exhales, relaxing into John’s embrace.

“Next time,” John says, “we’re getting a babysitter.”


	4. Year 7

“Oh, my dear boy,” Mrs. Holmes sighs, pulling John close. 

“My father passed away when I was twenty-four,” she says. “I felt like I was drowning—as though my grief were an ocean and the waves had sucked me under.” She releases him, hands on his shoulders. “It took me a long time to reach the surface again. But I found my way back, John, and you will, too.”

She smiles, a fierce, determined curl of her mouth. “You’re always welcome here, my boy. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods, voice trapped in his throat. The kettle sings, and Mrs. Holmes totters off, looking over her shoulder to give John another fond look.

As she enters the kitchen, Sherlock leaves it. Joanna swings her legs from Sherlock’s hip, tugging at the tiny Santa hat falling over her eyes. “No,” Sherlock hums, taking her hands, “you have to leave that there. The grown-ups haven’t taken pictures yet, which is apparently important. I know, I don’t understand it either—”

He stops, eyes landing on John. John’s chest tightens, and he wonders whether that’s pain or love or something else spooling out beneath his ribcage. He feels hot tears behind his eyes and sits down, rubbing his hands over his thighs.

“Daddy,” Joanna says. 

“I’m here, my love,” John whispers, his eyes brimming.


	5. Year 9

John takes Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock stares at him from the hospital bed.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

“No such luck.” He seems determined to keep his face blank, his fingers stiff beneath John’s.

“I wouldn’t forgive you this time, you know. Joanna would be heartbroken.”

“She’s alright, then?”

John nods. “We need to stop finding trouble on national holidays. We’re encouraging bad habits.”

Sherlock’s gaze drifts to their interlocked hands. “John…”

“You’ve saved her life so many times. My life. Mary’s, back when…” He swallows. “I owe you so much.”

Sherlock is silent, his throat working. John presses on. “I’ve been… well. Thinking. A lot. For quite some time, actually. But I’ve been afraid to—I didn’t know what _you_ were thinking. I’m still not sure. But I’m at a point, now, where… I just need to know. Before I burst. Before we go off somewhere and one of us doesn’t come back.”

He feels his boldness wavering, unable to read the look on Sherlock’s face. John closes his eyes and thinks back to this morning, to that awful terror, the clarity it brought with it. _I love you_ , he remembers thinking, the words descending over him like sunlight: warm, comfortable, and familiar.

“John,” Sherlock says again.

“Hush,” John says, and kisses him. And then, to John’s delight, Sherlock kisses back.


	6. Year 11

“Oh good Lord,” he says, dangling the ornament from his finger.

“Sherlock, you’re supposed to be _wrapping_ gifts, not opening them.”

“‘Our first Christmas,’” Sherlock reads. It’s a hideous-looking thing, a ceramic heart made from two candy canes. “Mrs. Hudson knows this is hardly our first Christmas together.”

“It’s our first _married_ Christmas, Sherlock.” John leans over, a sloppy smile softening his face. Sherlock groans. “Oh, you like it, don’t be sour. How many presents do you have left over there?”

“None. All wrapped.”

“Take some of these, then, would you?”

A loud _thump_ reverberates upstairs; John and Sherlock lift wary eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll go,” John says, rising, but stops to loom over Sherlock.

The warm haze of the fireplace dances in John’s eyes. “If she’s awake, I’ll get her washed and dressed so you can finish, okay? Just don’t open any more, you git,” he adds.

“Yes, _fine_.”

Grinning, John bends to kiss his hair.

Sherlock lets his gaze follow John upstairs, idly twisting the wedding band around his finger. How did he end up here? A husband, a daughter—a stupid ornament that, admittedly, sends his heart into his throat. Absurd, _mortifying_ … and yet. Sherlock takes scissors to the wrapping paper and realizes, not for the first time, that there is no place he would rather be.


	7. Year 13

“I’m still amazed how good he is with her.”

Greg gestures to the children gathered outside the orphanage. At the gate, Joanna twirls her dress and gazes up at Sherlock. 

“He’s wonderful,” John agrees. Sherlock kisses Joanna’s cheek before shooing her off. “The adoption papers were approved this month. It’s all official now.”

“Blimey, really?” Greg claps John on the back. “That’s brilliant.”

“Don’t tell Sherlock, though. I’ve got everything framed and wrapped under the tree.” He smiles as Sherlock approaches. “I thought I’d surprise him.”

Sherlock reaches them, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “Massive fire damage to the east wing, nowhere else. Someone made sure that _only_ the east wing burned.”

“Eliminating evidence?” John suggests.

“Possibly. Lestrade, you need to find everyone who was working today—”

A young, proud voice rises above the commotion. “Father Christmas is a lie parents tell their children to scare them into being good!”

John blanches. “Oh no,” he groans, and looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mouth twitches.

John glares. “Excuse us,” he mutters, dragging Sherlock toward the now-crying children. “You said you’d handle this.”

“I did speak to her,” Sherlock says, amused.

“She just told a bunch of _bloody orphans_ that Santa isn’t real.”

“Well, she isn’t wrong—”

“Sherlock!”

“I’ll fix it.”

“You’d better.”

“I love you?” he offers.

“Fix it!” John barks.


	8. Year 21

“Ooh, thanks, Uncle Mycroft,” Joanna says, holding an expensive-looking blouse and trousers.

Sherlock moans. “For God’s sake, Mycroft.”

“What?” says John. “They’re nice clothes.”

“They’re _interview_ clothes.”

Joanna looks alarmed. “What?”

“An internship,” Mycroft says primly, “has opened up in my department. I thought you might be interested.”

“She’s not.”

“Papa—”

“If you go into government, Joanna, I will never speak to you again.”

“ _Papa_.”

“Sherlock,” John warns.

Sherlock springs from his armchair, taking his plate to the kitchen in a huff. “You don’t want to work for your uncle.”

“How do you know? Maybe I do.”

Sherlock returns, scowling. “Since when do you care about politics? You’re going into chemistry.”

“No, you _want_ me in chemistry. And biology, and forensics, and medicine.” She stands, her cheeks flushed. “I can’t do everything, you know. I’m not—I’m not _you_ two!” She glares at John and Sherlock accusingly.

“Joanna,” John soothes.

“No. We’re not discussing stupid school on stupid Christmas.” She stomps across the room, pausing to glance at Mycroft. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Mycroft,” she mumbles, then trudges up the stairs.

“Joanna…”

“Leave me alone!” she shouts, slamming her door.

John massages his temples. “She is insufferably like her father,” Mycroft remarks as Sherlock slumps into his chair.

“Which one?” John asks with a wry smile.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft sighs. “Both.”


	9. Year 27

They duck beneath a table. John spots Sherlock behind the register, locking eyes with him.

“You okay?” Joanna whispers.

“Yeah.” Footsteps; John flattens his arm against Joanna and peers around the corner.

“Dad, we need to talk.”

“We’re chasing a murderer, honey. Can it wait?”

She cringes. “I’m engaged.”

John blinks. He turns to stare at her. “ _What?_ ”

“Engaged. You know. Getting married.”

“To _who_?”

“You haven’t met him.”

“You’re damn right I haven’t!”

“You would have today, but then the murder thing happened, and his flight was delayed—”

“Flight?”

“He’s American.”

“American,” John echoes. He scrubs his face. “You’ve known him how long?”

“Well…” She winces. “Four months.”

“Oh my God,” John says.

Sherlock shouts his name; John looks up, dodging a kick, and manages to knock the man down. “Knife!” Sherlock yells, and in seconds John wrenches it out of the man’s hand and presses it against his throat.

Sherlock flips on the lights and walks over. “What were you two whispering about?”

“She’s engaged.”

Sherlock exchanges a guilty look with Joanna. John gapes. “You _knew_?”

“Papa sussed it out, that day he met me at work. Mark’s at the museum, too.”

“I don’t approve,” Sherlock assures him. 

“Oh my God,” John says again.

Joanna gives him a nervous smile. “Merry Christmas?”

“I hate you both,” John says bitterly.


	10. Year 31

“He’s so excited,” Molly giggles. “I think he’s told everybody three times now.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. Their flat is packed with people, but John stands out like a ray of sunlight. It makes Sherlock’s heart swell, just watching him bounce about the room.

“Did he show you pictures?” Sherlock asks.

Of course he did. But Molly, bless her, looks at them again, grinning widely. “Rebecca Mary. It’s a lovely name, Sherlock.”

He nods. “I think so, too.”

 

They stay up past midnight cleaning the flat. Finally, around one, John slips into bed next to Sherlock, grunting as he stretches his bad knee.

Sherlock rubs his toes against John’s. “You were absolutely ridiculous tonight.”

“Oh, sod off. I’m _happy_.” He smiles, shutting his eyes.

“Did you talk to Joanna?”

“Mmhmm.” He curls into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Mark said he’d stop by tomorrow. They should be clear to leave hospital on Friday.”

“Good.” Sherlock gazes at the ceiling, his fingers weaving through John’s hair. “She can’t call us both Grandpa, you know.”

“You’ll be Grandpa. I’ll be Granddad.”

Sherlock laughs in John’s ear. “So you’ve thought about this?”

“Often.” John sighs. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“We are just _swimming_ in the sentimentality today, aren’t we?”

John knees him playfully in the thigh. “Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight,” says Sherlock, chuckling, and draws up the blankets.


	11. Year 35

Chasing criminals through London is not, Sherlock admits, quite what it used to be.

They lose track of the woman on Queen Street. Sherlock stops, gasping, and turns to find John bent over a bench. John’s been favoring his knee for years, but Sherlock can tell it’s worse than usual tonight. Wheezing, he circles back, watching snowflakes stick to John’s eyelashes.

“This was one of our more idiotic ideas,” John pants. 

“Borderline irresponsible,” Sherlock agrees, and helps him to the other side of the bench, where they sit and watch the snow fall.

Silence coats the streets. John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s and drops his head to Sherlock’s side. “We should call the police.”

Sherlock shrugs. “She was a petty thief. They’ll catch her another day.”

John makes a noncommittal noise. Sighing, Sherlock looks at their hands. “When did we grow old, John?”

“We haven’t been young men for twenty years.”

Sherlock can’t argue with that. Twenty years ago, their hands weren’t this wrinkled, dotted with age spots and scars. Nor was John’s hair so white. Sherlock chooses not to think about the shock of gray taking over his own.

He pats John’s hand. “Can you walk? Just to the corner for a cab.”

John nods. Slowly, they stand, John’s arm draped around Sherlock’s neck, and leave the bench behind.


	12. Year 40

John puts down the phone. “A curator at the British Museum. Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can. She’s always been clever; I’d expect nothing less.”

John sighs. “I wish they could’ve come today.”

“Next year,” Sherlock promises. He carries a plate of eggs and bacon to John, plants a kiss on his mouth, and sits. “Happy Christmas, John.”

 

After supper, they meander up the hill beyond their cottage to watch the sun set. The village sprawls below them, little gable roofs burning orange in the waning light. John huddles against Sherlock, their legs tangling together atop the grass.

Sherlock cracks open a thermos and pours them each a cup of tea. John sips thoughtfully, warmth spreading through him.

“I miss the ridiculous ones,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“Christmases. The ones we spent trailing killers, getting into trouble. Those were my favorite.”

Sherlock squeezes John’s arm. “Mine, too.”

Soon the sky turns purple-black, and tiny lights flicker to life among the rooftops. They make their way back to the cottage, John leaning on his cane but mostly on Sherlock.

“Let’s go find some trouble tomorrow,” he decides. “Just like old times. What do you say?”

Sherlock laughs. “Sure, if you’d like. After I tend to the bees, of course. Then my day is yours.”

“Of course.” John smiles. “After the bees.”


End file.
